


In all my dreams before my helpless sight

by SleepySelfLoathing



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Female Presenting Aziraphale, Historical References, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Multi, Nurse Aziraphale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World War I, World War I wasn't a fun time, mentions of the four horsepersons of the apocalypse, toot toot all aboard the trauma train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-10-01 00:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySelfLoathing/pseuds/SleepySelfLoathing
Summary: Crowley doesn't remember the shell that destroyed his leg, but he wishes he could forget everything that came after.--Or: Crowley loses a leg, Aziraphale is a nurse, and the Great War trudges on.Somehow, we all find rest.





	In all my dreams before my helpless sight

**Author's Note:**

> Have any of you ever heard of Siegfried Sassoon? He was a poet during World War I, and his poem "Dulce et Decorum est" messes me up every time I read it. It was a huge inspiration for this story (the title is a direct quote!).
> 
> Fun fact! Sassoon was queer, and had several relationships with men prior to his marriage. 
> 
> Edit: Woops! I mixed up Sassoon with Wilfred Owen, another queer WWI poet and Sassoon's protege! Sorry!
> 
> (Also, just a quick warning, there is a part of this story where a character is administered morphine. Drug stuff personally makes me uncomfortable, so I don't dwell on it. However, if that content is upsetting to you, please keep yourself safe).

_When the shell comes, he doesn’t hear it._

\--

Crowley reaches consciousness slowly.

His muffled thoughts are taking their sweet time coalescing, scraping together like he’s picking up a scattered deck of cards. The thoughts eventually bring forth a catalogue of sensations: a throbbing from his left, a bone-deep freeze resting in his limbs, and military-issued bedclothes scratching his skin.

His hands are shaking, but they’ve been shaking since 1915, so he ignores them.

He’s still trying to parse out his situation when a figure approaches the bed (cot? Crowley doesn’t know what he’s lying on, doesn’t care), notices Crowley’s eyes are open, and, after giving him a cursory examination, begins talking.

The doctor is blurry, but his words are clear.

The doctor informs Crowley that they had to pick shrapnel out of his left arm and pectoral muscles, and that his eyes have been damaged by a gas attack (this is a lie, though the humans don’t know it. His eyes have always looked like this). They also stitched up several cuts on his back and set his dislocated shoulder.

The doctor hesitates before telling him that his left leg was hit by a shell.

The doctor pats his arm when he says that Crowley’s leg had to be amputated mid-thigh to save his life.

Fine. This isn’t a big deal. Crowley can just grow another leg, miracle it better. It’s what he’s done in the past when he’s been injured, shouldn’t be a big deal now.

But he doesn’t.

Crowley lies in the medical tent and doesn’t do anything.

Now that he’s been told about it, he is viciously aware of the wound. It’s a hot, bright crater in himself, burning with the void of loss, and every beat of Crowley’s useless heart pulls forth a twin throb of agony from the stump. It is a pain that demands tribute from his body and soul, to be paid in an all-consuming attention.

(Crowley’s hands are shaking. Is it worse or better now that they have reason to?)

The doctor says it’s a miracle that Crowley survived the night.

If it was, Crowley is sure it wasn’t one of his.

\--

_Crowley’s back is pressed against the side of the shell hole, and he hurts._

_He’s leaning right up against a torn string of razor wire, half hanging off a splintered fence post, and it’s making him bleed._

_It’s digging into his back, right along the place where his wings would be, the wire cutting up his clothes, catching his skin, gouging his flesh. It’s promising to hold Crowley tight unless he rips it away, demanding violence with its very presence._

_But for now, the wire holds him in its metal embrace with no resistance._

_After all, it’s not like Crowley can move._

\--

Crowley opens bleary eyes, and stares at the new roof above his bed.

They’ve moved Crowley to an evacuation hospital since his condition hasn’t improved (He isn’t healing. Every time he thinks about his leg, another heartbeat pushes a spurt of blood out of his stump, breaking the half-assed scabs that bothered to form. The doctors think that it’s an infection preventing the wound from closing. Crowley suspects it’s something worse).

Now, he’s resting in an old French castle, with lofty ceilings and inescapable drafts. The screams and sobs of soldiers from the other end of the ward (a former antechamber) echo and bounce off the walls, mixing with the stilted comments of nurses and doctors.

It could be much, much worse. Crowley could have been moved to a repurposed church.

Crowley closes his eyes, lets the haze of drowsiness envelope but not consume him. Crowley hasn’t slept more than an hour since he lost his leg for reasons he doesn’t care to examine, but he still misses the sweet oblivion that used to greet him whenever he lost consciousness.

Right now, he’s teasing his body with half-rest. Maybe that will be enough.

The sounds of the other people in the ward continue to echo through the air, distant, until –

“There we go, dear boy, you’ll be right as rain soon.”

Crowley’s eyes snap open, looking about wildly for the source of that voice.

(He _knows_ it, he hasn’t heard it in decades, but he knows it better than any sound in the world).

Body protesting, Crawley cranes his head up to survey the ward. He spots what he’s looking for almost instantly smiling three beds to his left.

Aziraphale is wearing a nurse’s uniform, dressed in a long blue skirt with a white apron and headscarf. She’s currently wiping blood off her hands, putting stained bandages in a basket, and rearranging the sheets on a soldier’s bed, all while managing to make the actions seem graceful. She looks fantastic (Aziraphale always did look best in blue and white).

It makes sense that Aziraphale would be assigned to medical duty, couldn’t have heaven getting blood on their hands in the trenches, after all, but rather than feeling resentful, Crowley is surprised by the wave of relief that overtakes him.

Aziraphale isn’t in the trenches.

Crowley isn’t sure if he should thank Satan, God, or pure dumb luck for that.

Crowley is broken out of his musing by Aziraphale standing up and turning towards him, and it’s clear that she spots him instantly from the way her eyes widen. She’s moving around the other beds now, skipping past the other soldiers to reach Crowley.

When she’s close enough, Crowley chances a greeting.

“Hello, angel.”

“Hello indeed! What on earth are you doing here?”

The part of Crowley that makes up excuses must be on extended leave, because the usual answers (_I’m wasting medical supplies, I’m distracting the nurses, I’m riling up the soldiers_) don’t come.

Under Aziraphale’s bright gaze, Crowley is quiet.

(It’s not for lack of trying).

Aziraphale isn’t willing to wait for an answer. “I haven’t seen you in over half a century, and you see fit to pop up here, in the middle of the worst war I’ve ever seen, without so much as a _how do you do_?”

Crowley is fighting (and losing against) the impulse to hide under his sheets. He’s not sure how he expected his reunion with Aziraphale to play out, but it wasn’t with her scolding him while he’s stuck in a hospital bed.

Aziraphale is still reprimanding him. “Leaving me alone without even a word for so long, it’s unspeakably rude! And honestly, for all I know, this whole conflict is a product of your demonic machinations –”

“It’s not!” Crowley is suddenly much more energetic than he was a second ago. “I just took credit for it! If you think I’ve had anything to do with this, I’ll be…” not insulted, he shouldn’t be insulted, he’s a demon, he’s supposed to do evil things and this war is undoubtably evil, “I’ll be…”

Aziraphale cuts him off. “Well, _I’m_ glad it’s not your fault, regardless of how you may feel. I’m sure your side is loving it, though.” She sniffs. “You’ll probably get another commendation.”

“Already have,” Crowley says, “just haven’t been down to pick it up.”

Crowley does not want to go the hell right now, not like this, not when he’s fragile in ways he doesn’t understand. The thought of any of his demonic colleagues seeing his hands shake makes him nauseous.

(Crowley trembling hands are currently hidden under the sheets, concealed from Aziraphale’s sight).

“Well, now that’s sorted, I need to ask, dear boy, what are you doing here? I must say I would have thought you’d be out where the fighting is thickest, and while I’m glad you’re not in any immediate danger, there’s really not that much going on in this hospital.” She looks to the side, then back to his face with a tiny grin. “If it’s any wile on your part, I’m sure we could come to some kind of, ah, _Arrangement_.”

That would be a good cover, wouldn’t it? Make up a temptation to convince Aziraphale that Crowley’s on some generic job, but instead he says, “m’leg got blown off. Just need a place to rest.”

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide again. “Your whole leg?” She pulls down his covers before he can stop her. “Goodness! That is quite the wound. I’m surprised you weren’t discorporated receiving it. Wait,” She checks the bandages, “Is it still bleeding?”

“Yup.” Crowley says, and with Aziraphale holding his sheets hostage, he can’t even try to hide his humiliated blush.

Aziraphale gives him a sympathetic look (it’s nearly enough to finish the job the shell started), but then she sets about changing his bandages.

She’s silent for a moment, before giving him a soft smile and saying, “if you need a place to rest, then I won’t deny you one,” then her expression turns a little smug, “Besides, it’ll be much easier to keep you from preforming any vile temptations when you’re under my watchful gaze.”

“Absolutely right, angel. Didn’t you once tell me that virtue never sleeps?” Crowley grins back.

“Many times, dear, I’m glad your memory hasn’t disappeared along with your limb. Now, since you’re so terribly wicked, you ought to get some slumber. Virtue might never sleep, but I’m sure evil wouldn’t mind the rest.”

Aziraphale finishes bandaging up his leg, then pulls up his sheets and tucks him in.

“Sleep well, dear boy.”

And she leaves, leaving him in turn with a bit of a bind.

Crowley doesn’t want to sleep, knows from experience that he’ll have night terrors and wake up with dread in his bones.

But Aziraphale expects it of him, and he’s too weary to deny her.

(He’s never been able to deny her).

Crowley feigns sleep until the nightmares drag him under.

\--

_Crowley can’t move._

_He’s pressed into a ball, curled as close as he can without being a snake, and he can’t. move._

_He’s trying, he’s trying so hard, he promises, he swears. He thinks he might be crying, but he can’t feel his face. He needs this to stop, needs to force his stupid body away from this pit._

_He can’t raise his fingers to snap. His hands are digging into his arms, pulled tight against his chest._

_(He doesn’t need to snap to make a miracle, but he can’t without it, not like this)._

_He can’t move he can’t move he can’t he can’t he can’t –_

\--

When Crowley jolts awake, it’s to the sound of “FUCK YOU, BITCH!”

“Well, I’m terribly sorry you feel that way, but your bandages will not change themselves. Just be patient a moment longer, dear boy, it’s almost over.”

In that moment, Crowley decides that nobody in this ward deserves Aziraphale.

(That includes himself, but he’s known _that_ for centuries).

By now, Crowley’s been here long enough to feel like this indictment is justified even in light of the injuries his fellow patients have suffered.

The soldiers in this ward have some of the worst wounds, lost limbs and punctured organs that can’t be properly treated at the front, and these poor sods managed to survive the whole trip to this hospital. Crowley knows the whole lot of them (himself included) are in a bad way. He’s seen the expressions on the nurse and doctors who come to see them, seen the horror dull in their eyes (Crowley finds their impersonal detachment much more horrifying, himself).

But Aziraphale is different.

Aziraphale is special because she doesn’t shy away from anything. Infected wounds get her gentle touch, stitches are treated with a benevolent smile, tears met with infinite patience. No matter the injury, no matter the soldier, Aziraphale greets them all with the same warm expression and sweet words.

Some men love her for it, and some resent her.

Today, most resent her.

Most are vocal about it.

Aziraphale takes it all with a serenity that would make other angels envious, and inspiring one of the seven deadly sins in an angel is no mean feat.

Crowley’s in the last bed of the ward, the last to be treated on her rounds. It takes a long while, but when Aziraphale finally reaches his bed, he tries to draw her gaze with a quip.

“Enjoying Britain’s best and brightest, angel?”

Aziraphale apparently has no more grace left over for him, because her disappointed glare is almost enough to discorporate him on the spot.

“I won’t have you mocking them, _serpent_. These men served bravely, and if you can’t give them respect, then you might at least grant them dignity. It’s not as though you’ve experienced half of what they’ve endured.”

And doesn’t that hurt worse?

Aziraphale must notice his sudden silence, because she looks off to side, wrings her hands, sighs, and then pulls down the covers to begin changing his bandages.

She sighs again before saying, “I apologise for being so short, dear boy. I’m a mite frazzled.”

“It’s ok, angel. It’s fine.”

Aziraphale finishes wrapping up his thigh without responding, but she doesn’t leave. She lingers, puttering around his bed and fixing his sheets, obviously dithering.

Crowley waits.

“It’s just… I don’t understand why you’re still here. It’s been a full fortnight, and you still haven’t bothered to heal your leg. You haven’t even let scar tissue grow! You can’t expect _me_ to do it. You’ve seen my work here, I’ve _seen_ you watching me, you know I can’t spare any miracles to do it for you!”

Aziraphale’s eyes have gone all pinched, and Crowley has a second to really look at her, to see the worry lines and bags pulling at her face before she schools her expression into something more neutral.

She looks worn out, and Crowley feels the same.

He sighs, “it’s alright, angel, I’ll fix it soon and be out of your hair.”

(Soon, he says. It’s not a lie as long as he keeps it vague).

This answer is enough to earn him a smile. Not the full, beaming grin that Crowley covets, but a softer, more delicate thing, something that is as precious as it is fragile.

It warms Crowley up just the same.

“If that’s the case, my dear boy, you ought to get some rest. A new leg is a big miracle, and I know you love your sleep.” She brushes his hair to the side, nods, and then turns to exit the ward.

Aziraphale leaves, and Crowley braces himself for the wave of negative emotions that sweep in to fill the void of her Grace. Aziraphale’s angelic aura was strong enough to dull Crowley’s demonic senses, but now that’s she’s gone the human vices wash over him like a flood.

Crowley can feel the anger and resentment dripping off some of the men. That’s fine, Crowley knows how to handle anger, has been handling anger since he was booted out of heaven. The fear is less easy to deal with, but he’s spent so much time in the trenches by this point that it’s familiar, an old friend who you despise but keep close all the same. Hopelessness, that was fine. Nobody had much hope now that the war was nearly half a decade in with no sign of stopping.

Crowley could deal with the pungent cocktail of emotions filling the ward like miasma. He could handle it, he was _fine_.

He couldn’t handle the resignation.

The resignation, that’s… it’s…

Crowley can feel it lingering over the beds like a spectre.

Back in the trenches, Crowley has seen the horsemen, all four of them out in no-man’s land. War laughing behind a machine gun, Famine stealing tins of bully beef, Pestilence scattering lice across uniforms, and all that was disturbing on its own.

But Death.

Death didn’t stay in no-man’s land. Death lived in the trenches and slept right above every soldier’s head, was a constant bedfellow that every serviceman knew more intimately than any person they’d ever met.

Death had lain beside Crowley on his many sleepless night, and now…

Death is present in this hospital ward, and Crowley can smell him.

(Crowley’s hands are shaking. They shook in the trenches, and they’re shaking now).

Crowley pulls the covers high and does not sleep.

\--

_Crowley is praying. He hasn’t done that in a long time._

_His lips barely move, but he’s whispering so fast he’s running out of breath._

_He doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t, and he knows prayers won’t stop it from happening._

_It’s not like God is here in this pit. God isn’t anywhere in this fucking war, silent while thousands of people die with Her name on their lips. If God was going to listen to anyone’s prayers, it wouldn’t be one of the creatures she cast out._

_But God isn’t listening to anyone’s prayers._

_(Crowley hates Her, he hates Her so much)._

_God isn’t here, but Crowley looks across the hole, sees he’s not alone and –_

\--

Crowley isn’t sleeping, but even if he wanted to, he suspects he wouldn’t be able to due to the sobbing coming from five beds over.

It’s probably the middle of the night, but Crowley’s pocket watch was stolen months ago, so he doesn’t know the actual time. It’s too dark to see, and the lack of sight makes the noises that much louder.

“I want – I want my, my mama…”

It’s the first string of coherent words the man has said in ages, but it hardly makes Crowley feel better.

(He’s young, Crowley can sense it. He’s barely lived two decades and his life is already over).

Crowley’s about to pull his pillow over his head in anguish when the ward doors open and a wave of calm sweeps across the room. Crowley’s corresponding sigh of relief is involuntary. There’s only one nurse who carries that feeling of peace with them, only one who never sleeps.

He can hear Aziraphale’s shoes clack across the stone floor towards the boy, skirt swishing like the brush of feathers over feathers, and Crowley can’t tell if her presence makes the situation better or worse.

“Hush now, dear boy, it’s alright, I’m here.” Crowley hears Aziraphale’s words across the darkness, hears the rustle of fabric against linens, hears the man’s sobs muffle from where he’s being held in Aziraphale’s arms.

This man is not the first soldier to break down in this ward, and Crowley has watched Aziraphale’s routine enough times during daylight to know the steps by heart. However, this is the first time Crowley’s heard Aziraphale comfort someone at night, and he’s curious about how this dance will play out, despite himself.

She seems to follow the same motions that she does during the day, full of soft reassurances and a tender embrace, but then Aziraphale changes the tempo.

“I know it can be quite hard to sleep on lonely nights like these, sweetheart. Would a lullaby help?”

The man doesn’t respond with anything but a harsh inhale, but Aziraphale starts singing anyway.

Crowley hasn’t heard Aziraphale sing for a long, long time, doesn’t remember the last time she was willing to strike up a tune in his presence.

(Yes he does, it was in Egypt. Aziraphale had been singing under his breath while shelving scrolls at the library of Alexandria, unconscious and distracted. Crowley had been desperately in love).

Hearing it now, Crowley knows that Aziraphale’s voice is too sweet for this ward, for this boy, for this _blessed_ night.

Crowley closes his eyes and listens anyway.

It’s a silly old song, something about a piper’s son and pig stealing, but Crowley focuses on the shape of Aziraphale’s words, the way they fill the sightless space throughout the ward and rest against his ears. (Crowley is so intent on the sound he can forget his leg, forget his nightmares, lose himself in this moment).

The man’s sobs are slowing their pace, pausing in their rush to flood the night air. Crowley finds himself calmed as well, is drifting towards slumber before he catches himself.

Aziraphale’s lullaby has devolved into soft humming when –

“Mama, _please_ –”

“Hush, sweetheart, I’m here, you’re safe.”

The sobs begin anew, visceral and loud. Aziraphale starts singing the lullaby once more, and so they continue through the night.

It’s a relief when the man goes silent about an hour before dawn.

(What Crowley feels isn’t guilt, it’s _not_).

\--

_Crowley is so, so scared._

_It feels like the end of things, like they’ll never be never be another day, another hour, another minute. Armageddon is happening now, and the fact that the world continues is merely prolonging the destruction._

_Each second creeps past, agonized and agonising._

_Evening turns to dusk, turns to night, and Crowley still hasn’t moved, still can’t move._

_(He can’t he can’t he can’t–)._

_The sky is clear. If Crowley could raise his head, he’d be able to see the full moon (see his beloved stars)._

_The dim moonlight illuminates the other side of the crater._

_The thing across the pit is given form, and Crowley is petrified._

\--

Crowley is awake, and he honestly would take nightmares over what’s happening to him right now.

While Crowley is content to wallow in miserable silence, some of the other patients want ridiculous things like companionship, with one such person resting on Crowley’s immediate left. The man lying next to Crowley’s bed is an oaf, and Crowley despises him with a vitriol that surprises even himself.

This is not at all helped by the man’s propensity for talking.

“She’s just so fetching, looks all plump and matronly, but I betcha she’s a real floosie under those skirts.”

Even worse, all this human talks about is Aziraphale.

“And her tits! Never seen wobbly, big ones like those! Love to get my mouth all over them, see how’d she’d like it.”

Crowley doesn’t know his name, prefers to keep this human faceless so he’s less likely to remember him in the future. But until the lovely moment this human is erased from history, Crowley is stuck clutching his bedsheets with trembling hands and enduring hours of commentary about Aziraphale’s arse.

Hell couldn’t imagine a more perfect torture than this.

“I asked her to marry me, y’know.”

“Hm.” Crowley says, like he isn’t imagining pressing a pillow against this man’s face, pushing it down and down until he stops breathing.

“Says she’s ‘devoted to her husband,’ a sergeant or summat, but I don’t see why she can’t take a tumble with me when her man’s off god knows where. S’not like he’s less likely to cop it when she’s moony over him.”

Marriage is a good enough excuse to get these men to stop hitting on her, Crowley supposes. When they don’t hate her, half the men in the ward seem to be in love with her, and Aziraphale always looks for the most convenient and graceful excuses to avoid any undue awkwardness.

“And I asks her if her bloke’s as handsome as me, and she says he’s the handsomest man she’s ever knew. So I asks her what he looks like, y’know, to feel out my competition.”

Crowley doesn’t want to hear about Aziraphale’s fantasy husband, but short of bashing his own face against the metal headboard until he’s unconscious, nothing will stop this man from talking.

“And she says he’s a bloody ginger! And no spite to you, mate, but honestly, tall dark fellows like myself seems much more to her liking.”

Crowley shifts in bed, and the sudden movement makes his leg flare up in agony. He ignores it, much more focused on –

“Ginger?”

The man latches onto the first word Crowley’s contributed to this whole interaction. “Yeah! And she nattered on and on about his eyes, says they’re like gold coins, talked about it the whole time she was changing m’bandages but I don’t –”

“Has she mentioned a name?” Crowley interrupts, just a bit too eager, too eager by far, but an emotion that is almost shaped like hope is rising in Crowley’s chest before he can squish it into something less painful.

The man, looking awfully pleased that he has Crowley’s attention, makes a big show out of trying to remember. “Her fella’s got a real queer name, sounds kinda posh, not something y’hear often –”

“Spit it out already,” Crowley growls.

“She mentioned it to Henry over there, said his name was Crow-ly or the like.”

Silence reigns between them.

Then –

Crowley can’t help it, he starts laughing.

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs until he can’t breathe, until his chest is aching, until he’s sure that if he stops laughing he’ll immediately break down in tears.

Figures Aziraphale would steal Crowley’s name behind his back. Can’t even be bothered with a proper proposal or marriage, just straight to identity fraud. What a bastard. Crowley would be proud if he wasn’t desperately miserable.

It was probably just a panicked choice on her part, had to think on the spot of a name for her fictional husband and forced to stick with it to keep the lie consistent, but Crowley’s so far gone that even the lie makes his heart race. He’s so far gone he wishes it were true.

Not even his leg hurts as bad as the reminder of what he can never have.

He’s still laughing his head off, and his bedside neighbour probably thinks Crowley’s lost it. Good. Maybe he’ll finally shut up and stop bothering him.

In the meantime, Crowley will lie here and laugh over the tragic comedy that is his life, that is his relationship with Aziraphale, that is Crowley’s stupid, _fucking_ heart.

Crowley laughs until he runs out of air and passes out.

\--

_Crowley wishes he could move his hands to cover his ears, because tonight’s bombardment is brutal. _

_Shells whistling overhead, piercing his eardrums, bullets cracking across the mud filled void. _

_Someone is sobbing off in the distance… _

_(… or is it close by?) _

_Crowley should be used to the noise, but every explosion reverberates through his body, rattles the places he should have bones, stabs into his skull with military precision. _

_The shelling stops, eventually, but it continues to ring in Crowley’s ears. _

_Aside from that, the night is mostly quiet in this pit. _

_Just two sets of ragged breathing from two creatures who don’t need lungs. _

_(At least, not anymore). _

\--

Crowley is half asleep when a hand presses against his left shoulder.

He should feel lucky that he was stopped before falling unconscious (the nightmares have been getting worse, and they were never fantastic to begin with), but when he raises his eyelids, it’s just one of the human nurses.

All the nurses look the same to him, though he probably couldn’t remember them even if he wanted to, not when he’s exhausted like this. They all feel equally frazzled, equally pinched to Crowley’s senses.

This particular nurse is on the brink of a meltdown, and Crowley can feel stress thrum along her body and seep into the air around her. Dear Satan below, he wishes she was Aziraphale instead.

“Hello, sir, are you doing well?”

“Hmmph,” Crowley grunts in response.

“Your eyes, they’re not hurting?”

“No,” Crowley growls.

“Your leg, it’s doing well?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Her smile is brittle and far too strained for his liking. “I can change your bandages…”

“I’m fine.” Crowley’s leg is bleeding again, his bandages soaked through, and the mess is going to start showing through the blankets soon, but there is no way in heaven he’s letting this woman touch him.

(The way he is now, he’s not sure he could stop her if she tried).

“It’s just, I noticed you don’t sleep much, and I don’t– It’s not good, for your recovery.”

“I’m _fine_,” Crowley repeats. He wants this conversation over with, wants out of the limbo of human interaction. He has a busy schedule of brooding and not sleeping to attend to, after all.

Her smile splinters, “If you don’t sleep, you, you won’t heal, that’s simple facts. I could –” she leans right down to his shoulder, and she was already too close but now is near enough to rouse Crowley’s panic–

“We just got a shipment, of, you know, _morphine_. We’re to only to give it to those in pain, but if you’re having trouble sleeping, it could… help?”

“I don’t want any, now sod off,” Crowley says. He’s had enough experience with the drug during the previous century and doesn’t want to know how it would mix with his grisly dreams.

The nurse is still too close. Her crumbling expression is rapidly turning stony.

“I don’t think you have the right to know what’s good for you! You, you rude man!”

Crowley is distracted by this outburst, and it’s his undoing.

He doesn’t feel the injection, but the effects hit instantly. The languor sets in fast, too fast for something that makes him feel so slow. The nurse might be saying something, but the morphine is taking effect and all Crowley feels is rising panic coupled with a wash of numbness.

He knows what’s waiting for him in sleep, doesn’t want to go back, not to the shell crater, not back to that, not there, _please_–

Crowley blacks out.

\--

_Crowley can hear the skittering. _

_The rats are all over the trenches, all over no-man’s land, feeding on anything and everything with a voracious hunger. They’re glutted on death, stomachs distended with parts of corpses, blood on their teeth and mud in their fur. _

_Normally they give Crowley a wide berth, recognising him as an ancient predator, but tonight…_

_Tonight Crowley’s not much of anything. _

_They’re attracted to this crater, squirming past him with bloated bellies. Crowley can’t move to shove them away, can’t snap out his fangs and hiss, can’t defend himself…_

_The thing lying before Crowley is drawing them near. _

_Don’t look across the pit, don’t look at it, don’t look, don’t look don’t look don’t look…_

_If he doesn’t look, maybe it’s not real. _

_A rat brushes against his thigh, and Crowley chokes. _

\--

Crowley is swept out of his unconscious ordeal by a hand caressing his cheek.

As gentle as this awakening is, Crowley still finds himself shaking so badly that it’s rattling the bedframe (not just his hands, not confined to his hands). He should feel self-conscious, but all he can feel is the mud, rats skittering around him, a paralysing fear, and it’s too cold, too cold, he can’t move, and his leg hurts, but why, why does it…

Another hand cups his face, and Crowley lurches out his memories.

Aziraphale is looking at him with a concerned expression. Her hands are on his cheeks, and Crowley tries to narrow his world to her warm palms, to stay here, away from the pit and the dreams…

“Finally awake, are we? If you can’t answer with your words, then please nod your head.”

Crowley takes a shaky breath, focuses, and nods.

Aziraphale beams. “Excellent! I was terribly concerned, I know I shouldn’t have been, but you’ve been unconscious for nearly a week.”

Crowley is confused, tries to vocalise this confusion with a series of not-words while Aziraphale continues to hold him and wait.

Eventually Crowley manages, “You were… concerned?”

“Yes, dear boy,” Aziraphale’s glowing smile is fading, becoming something more serious, “Young Sarah came to me in tears a while ago, said she accidentally gave you too much morphine. It gave me quite a fright, I was…” Aziraphale pauses, “well, never mind how I felt. You’re the patient, how are you feeling?”

Crowley brain is moving as fast as mud. Aziraphale’s touch, the aftershocks from the nightmare, the fact that he’s still so tired, these all weigh down his mind and make his mouth heavy.

He manages, “I don’t want her near me.”

“I’m never letting her anywhere near you again! She gave you nearly triple the proper dosage!”

“Probably wanted me gone.”

“Crowley! Don’t joke about this, she could have discorporated you!” Aziraphale’s tone is much more distressed than this situation warrants, and Crowley tries to focus on her face.

Aziraphale is giving him a look. Crowley can’t figure out what it means, but he gets the feeling he’s either missing some vital piece of information or he’s just gone stupid with lack of proper rest.

He tries speaking, anything, anything to fix this weird interaction. “She said I wasn’t sleeping.”

Aziraphale’s expression is still inscrutable. “That’s not true, I’ve seen you asleep during my rounds. I’ve seen you sleeping when I check in during the night.”

“Faking it,” Crowley’s mouth supplies (it’s a lie, he has slept, just not the kind that helps, the kind that mends).

Aziraphale lets go of his face, brings her hands together and wrings them. Their loss hurts almost as bad as his leg.

“Is this why you haven’t been healing? Have you been suffering from insomnia?”

Crowley feels cold. “Something like that.”

Aziraphale’s face finally shifts to an expression Crowley recognises. Unfortunately, it’s the face of angelic superiority, the kind of face that declares _I know what’s best for you, so you should just do as I say._

“Well if that’s the problem, then I can certainly help speed you on your way” Aziraphale says, presses a hand to Crowley’s forehead, and Speaks: “you will fall asleep, and wake in three days’ time.”

The miracle hits harder than the morphine, hits before Crowley can protest, say this isn’t what he wanted, oh no, no, no not this not this no –

Crowley falls asleep like he’s falling from heaven.

\--

_Crowley has been avoiding the thing across this shell crater for an eternity. _

_But he’s messed up. The rats frightened him more, just for a moment, and Crowley looks up and he’s caught. _

_He can’t look away, not now, not now that the thing isn’t a thing, but a human. _

_Lying across form Crowley is a boy, and the boy is dying. _

_His organs are on the ground, Crowley can see them spilling out of a gash in his stomach, a loop of intestine tangled up in his hand. It’s red and brown with blood and shit and mud and the boy is weeping, quiet, quiet against the night-time air. _

_Crowley should put him out of his misery. He might be a demon, but he can’t stand to see this human bleed out slowly. It would be a favour to kill him, it would be a favour to both of them, and he should just get up and get it over with, just grab a shovel or a stick or just fucking strangle this boy, strangle this child lying in this shallow grave across from him and–_

_Crowley can’t move. _

_Crowley can’t do anything but stare. _

_The boy is crying, he’s got tears streaking down his filthy cheeks. He’s looking Crowley right in the eyes, brown meeting gold, and Crowley can see his soul, see all his dreams and desires and it’s too much, too much and Crowley can’t can’t can’t –_

_Crowley is lying in a muddy pit with a corpse that isn’t dead yet. _

_He hopes it dies soon. _

_For both their sakes. _

\--

Crowley wakes to screaming.

It’s loud and agonised, the kind of scream Crowley hasn’t heard outside the gates of hell, the kind that lingers long after the noise stops.

He wishes it would stop.

He’s disoriented from Aziraphale’s sleeping magic, but even still, but even through dull senses he aches all over, feels all the pains of his body with an acuity that pins him to the bedsheets and pounds in his eardrums. His leg is a mass of fire that is eating Crowley alive, his stump leg a funeral pyre.

The screaming still hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten louder.

It isn’t until his voice breaks that Crowley realises the screams are his.

That won’t do, no no no, that won’t do at all, he has to shut up, he has to stop.

He tries.

He can’t stop.

His stupid, _useless_ body isn’t listening to him, so Crowley must find an alternate solution.

Crowley wrenches a twitching hand up to his mouth, extends his serpentine fangs, and bites down into his flesh.

The screaming stops.

_Great solution_, Crowley congratulates himself, and sobs.

He can’t hear much over his own shuddering breath and pounding heartbeat for an eternity, but the pressure of someone sitting down on the bed jars his leg, making him bite down even harder.

(He can taste blood, and it’s making him dizzy, dizzy, dizzy).

There is a gentle hand holding his jaw, trying to coax his mouth open. Crowley turns his head away, dragging his bloody hand with him, but the touch along his jaw follows, insistent.

Crowley is slowly becoming aware of a sound beyond the prison of his racing blood, just as persistent and soft as the hand, and it’s close, very close, for his ears only.

“– perfectly alright dear, you’re going to be absolutely fine. You’re being very brave, but it’s okay to let go, you’re safe here. I have you –”

Oh god.

Crowley has no energy for Aziraphale treating him like this, for her sweet voice to whisper exactly what he needs. He’s already giddy with panic and heavy with exhaustion, and the melange of these two feelings are fraying him to pieces. He can’t take anything more.

Another hand grips Crowley’s wrist (gently, gently) and strokes along the veins. Aziraphale’s hold on his jaw increases in pressure, not enough to be painful (he’s already in pain), but enough to get his mouth open.

Aziraphale is trying to get Crowley to release his hand, but it isn’t until she whispers, “you’re doing _so well_, my dear,” that Crowley stops biting down.

Without his hand blocking his mouth Crowley’s sobs are loud, but as Aziraphale bandages his hand, Crowley tries to take in deep breaths, tries to turn the bawling into something more akin to whimpering.

Aziraphale finishes with his hand and dabs at his face with a handkerchief. She smiles at him, blurry through his tears, and meets his eyes.

“There you are, dearest. I was afraid I’d lost you.”

Crowley chokes down a sob.

“Don’t worry, nobody can hear you. Everyone else is asleep, I made sure of it. It’s just you and me,” Aziraphale leans her forehead against his and closes her eyes. “You’re safe.”

Crowley is still crying, still shaking all over, still in pain, but her promise feels true regardless.

“I’ll stay here as long as you need. Just try to be at peace.”

It’s quiet, and Crowley is learning how to be silent once more, is nuzzling his tear-filled face against Aziraphale’s. They’ve never been this close before. Crowley wishes he was in a state of mind to appreciate it properly.

Aziraphale’s voice is soft. “Are you feeling calmer, dear?”

Crowley doesn’t want to nod, doesn’t want to dislodge her, so he says “yeah,” in a hoarse voice instead.

Aziraphale hums. “Would you like to tell me what’s got you so out of sorts?”

Crowley is…

He’s…

He’s so tired.

He’s so sick and _tired_ of carrying this with him, of burying that night under his pillow and letting it out whenever he dreams. He’s sick and tired of being a slave to his stupid, human body and the pains of his amputated leg and the shaking in his hands and his sore back and the icy cold fear and everything else. Crowley is tired of lying to himself, and he’s tired of carrying this burden alone.

He’s starting to tear up again, but before Aziraphale does something awful like move away, he wraps himself around her and hooks his chin over her shoulder.

(He might be tired, but he can’t say this to her face).

“I-I was in the trenches, I’ve been in the trenches,” Crowley starts, “I’ve been there for years, I’m supposed to be tempting, observing but I –” he chokes, tries again, “I hate it angel, I hate it more than anything.”

His whole body is trembling as he clings to her, but Aziraphale wraps her arms around his back, holding him close to her, and Crowley feels secure enough to continue.

“I think I was with the, the Canadians? They were supposed to go up and over, supposed to attack, and I think, I think I got swept up? I don’t remember, angel, I don’t, but I got stuck out in the middle, in no-man’s land, and, I, I-I got stuck in an, in a shell hole.”

He’s breathing faster now, but Aziraphale is rubbing his back and it’s grounding, soothing. Crowley takes a shuddering breath.

“I couldn’t get out, it was muddy and cold, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t move and they were still shooting and I was stuck and I couldn’t move, I wasn’t hurt, but my body wouldn’t, i-it wouldn’t listen to me.”

Is he making any sense? It certainly doesn’t sound like it to his ears.

“And I, I wasn’t alone.”

Aziraphale stops rubbing his back, just for a moment, but Crowley can already feel himself slipping back, back to the crater, back to his nightmares, and –

Aziraphale starts stroking his back again. “Please continue, my dear. I’m still listening.”

Crowley breaths. “There was a boy. He was across from me. His… he was dying. And I watched. The whole night. I watched him die. And didn’t do anything. He –” Crowley’s voice breaks, “he was only _16_, and I could see it, could see his desires, and all he wanted was for it to be over. He wanted to die I couldn’t even give him that.”

The words he dreaded are out in the air now, they don’t belong to him anymore, and he regrets it immediately. Crowley is terrified by what he’s said, by what the words could do now that they’re no longer ripping up his innards and can claw at Aziraphale instead. She might hate him for it, and he can’t bear the possibility.

Might as well carry this through to the end.

“I sat in that crater until he died, just a bit before sunrise. I don’t remember when the shell came, I didn’t hear it. Woke up in a tent with no leg, can’t stop remembering and having nightmares, and that’s that.”

It’s over.

Crowley has bared his soul, scooped out his sins and thrown them in a messy heap on the floor at Aziraphale’s feet. He feels lighter, but empty.

Aziraphale is very, very still, and suddenly Crowley is furious.

“Don’t you dare pity me, angel. If you pity me I’ll never forgive you, I swear it!”

Aziraphale pulls back (no! no!), holds Crowley’s shoulders, and when he looks at her face, she’s _crying_.

“It’s not pity, Crowley, I promise it’s not. It’s sympathy, and I’m so sorry, I didn’t know –”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Crowley says quickly.

“Hush, dearest, I know you don’t.” And she’s lowering him back onto the sheets, back down to the bed, saying, “I think I understand why you haven’t healed yet. But now that I know, I can finally give you some proper help.”

Crowley is too exhausted (emotionally and physically) to resist, but he still tries say something, anything in response.

“Don’t leave me, angel.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll stay by your side as long as you need. After all, isn’t that our Arrangement?”

(It’s not, but Crowley prefers this lie over any truth he’s ever heard).

Aziraphale grants him one last, watery smile, before kissing his forehead and saying, “you will have a long, dreamless sleep. You will not wake until you are ready to be healed.”

And Crowley sleeps.

\--

…

…

…

…

…

\--

Crowley wakes after a deep and dreamless slumber.

He feels properly rested for the first time in years, and even though his hands are shaking, it’s more of a light tremble than an uncontrollable convulsion.

His leg hurts, but not as badly as it did before.

Crowley manages to sit up, shivering in the cold air, and looks around the ward. It’s dim, probably sometime between day and night, and every other man in the room is asleep.

Aziraphale isn’t here. He’s not sure why he expects her to be.

Peering his head around, Crowley spots another patient’s half-written letter with the date written at the top. He thinks back on the last time he checked the time and realises he’s been asleep for over a month.

Over a month with no nightmares. That’s a pretty impressive miracle on Aziraphale’s part.

He could try to match it.

Crowley rolls down the sheets (it’s cold, but not freezing), and looks at his stump leg.

It’s not bleeding, but it’s not healed. It’s lying there, confused about whether it should be injured or not.

Crowley decides it shouldn’t be, and It Is So.

The new leg is very pale, looks a bit limp, but when Crowley tries to bend his knee, it responds immediately. It’ll do.

More pressing is the fact that Crowley feels winded from the miracle. He’s out of practice. He needs to stretch more muscles than the ones in his body, do more magic. Be frivolous.

Crowley miracles himself some new clothes. Gone are the scratchy bedclothes, replaced with a sleek civilian’s suit, big sunglasses, and a thick overcoat with sleeves that are just long enough to hide his hands. Crowley likes it so much better than the bedclothes that his suit spontaneously decides to add a silver pocket watch to its ensemble.

With clothes like these, he could pass as a civilian, and that’s just what he intends to do.

Now that he’s rested, his mind is bubbling over with new plans, with schemes, with temptations. Crowley’s feeling _inspired_, has a goal to move towards, and Crowley has always worked best with a definite goal in sight.

But first, there’s the matter of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who listened, and worried, and kissed his forehead…

It wouldn’t do to leave her without some idea of what’s happened to him. Not again.

Crowley miracles up a discharge form for a Sergeant Crowley Fell (and oh isn’t that an awful name, he has to come up with a better one), staring at the paper as the writing rearranges itself into typeface. There. That should be enough to ease Aziraphale’s anxiety. But then again…

He miracles up another letter (it’s easier this time, he’s getting back into the swing of it) and glares until it’s typed out the way he wants. The army would never bother to send a personal letter to the wife of a discharged soldier, certainly not one with any military information, but Crowley doesn’t give a damn.

All that’s left is an envelope, which he tugs out of thin air, pre-rumpled just to be annoying, stuffing the two notes inside.

Crowley takes one last moment to thumb over the papers in the envelope, pauses, and makes a final decision. He pulls his wings out of the ether, looking terribly mussed and out of sorts (he hasn’t groomed them since 1914, too busy, no time), and plucks out one ragged feather. He stuffs it into the envelope and seals it. A minor enchantment will keep any humans from opening it, keep it for Aziraphale’s eyes only.

Satisfied, Crowley places the letter on his pillow.

He ought to get going. Now that he’s healed, he has no excuse to linger.

He stands on wobbly legs (he’s never understood legs all that well to begin with, and this new one is tough to master), and after a few slow laps up and down the ward, he feels steady enough to leave.

He takes one last look at his bed, at the envelope, at the place he’s spent the last few months of his life.

At the place where Aziraphale kissed his forehead and promised him rest.

Crowley slinks out into the night and doesn’t look back.

  


\--

  


Postscript:

Wed. 7 Nov. 1917

Dear Mrs. Crowley Fell (née A.Z. Fell),

We regret to inform you that your husband has been dishonourably discharged from service. Please find enclosed his discharge papers, as we have reason to believe he has deserted the army. If he returns to you, kindly inform your nearest military station, as he has been encouraging other young men to neglect their duty to their country and undermine the war effort. We cannot condone draft dodgers, and we hope you, as a responsible citizen, feel the same.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Sincerely,

Major Robert Armstrong, esquire

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my dad for proofreading this, my sister for listening to me edit out loud, and my mom for supporting me. Not many families would help me edit fanfiction, and I appreciate it.
> 
> A particularly special thank you is to all the people who left kudos, commented, and bookmarked my other fic. The amount of support you guys gave me just by reading it gave me the courage to continue writing.
> 
> I appreciate any and all comments. I hoard them like a dragon hoards gold.


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